


The Devil You Know

by ozonecologne



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (part II), Animal Death, Demon!Dean, M/M, Necromancy, Purgatory, meg is a cat, spoopy, witch!cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-01 01:02:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3999982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozonecologne/pseuds/ozonecologne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is a powerful necromancer living in the forest. A nightmare prophecy, unbidden, comes to him in a dream: the black magician Fergus Crowley will come for Castiel’s help with a little “project,” one that Castiel has absolutely no interest in. Fearful that Crowley’s visit to his home will turn into a forceful confrontation, Castiel uses his expertise to summon a shade for protection in case things get out of hand. In return for his services, the shade – a man damned forty years ago named Dean Winchester – asks for something in return.<br/>Which man will prove to be the greater evil: Crowley, or Dean?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to this post by backwatersoldiers:  
> ahh but necromancer!cas completing his training by raising up a powerful warrior to be his constant companion and protector! his newly-risen warrior calls himself dean and they go on adventures together, dean relishing this second chance at life and spending it fighting for a man he loves and has so much respect for ; u;
> 
> I'm also on [tumblr](http://ozonecologne.tumblr.com)! Come say hi.

His superiors told him it would be best to invoke a shade, despite how volatile they are. “If you need protection, Castiel, you’re going to want something that’s not afraid to harm those who would harm _you_.” Since shades are the remnants of damned beings banished to the underworld – dead for some time and existing solely within shadow – they have very few human qualities left to cloud their judgments. They are uncomplicated. They follow orders as dutifully as they fear their shackles.

No, a shade would be no trouble at all.

For weeks now Castiel had been secluded in the dead forest. The clearing was small, but perfectly round, his candles and offerings scattered around the points of each rune carved into the ground. He had been eating nothing but unleavened black bread for weeks. He rubbed his small talisman between his fingers, over and over and over again, chanting to himself quietly. It was to be a lengthy process, but Castiel still had faith.

His shade was recently departed, he knew that much. Only forty years or so deceased. Revelations are clearer with the young ones. Castiel’s lips moved evenly, and the wind picked up. The candles flickered, and eventually snuffed out.

There was a wailing now, a soft buzzing in the back of Castiel’s skull that he’d never quite gotten the hang of ignoring, and the ground cracked through the middle of his circle. Castiel did not move, he did not open his eyes; he only chanted and rubbed his talisman, waited through the quaking. With a great heave, the earth splintered and two charred hands shot up from below, clawing at the dead grass. His demon gulped air down its newly minted lungs, smoke rolling off its pocked flesh in thick, cloying waves. It rolled onto its back, eyes tipped skyward and humbled beneath the stars. It was panting, it was dirty, and the muscle of its thigh twitched with fatigue. “What –” it gasped.

Castiel opened his eyes then. The shade was not young, but a man, bloodied and war-hardened if its scars and craters were anything to go by. Castiel felt a small flush of pride in his chest. This was a good specimen, he decided. The shade twisted clumsily and faced him. Castiel froze.

Its eyes were green.

It blinked at him. “Who the hell are you?” it snapped.

Castiel stared. He couldn’t help it; he must have done something wrong. This demon had eyes green like springtime, and the staccato beating of its heart sounded far more like a birdsong than a war drum. Surely this was nothing of Hell’s creation.

“I’m the one who raised you from perdition,” Castiel replied.

The shade blinked again. “What, for fun?” it asked, glancing around at the melted candles and the offerings of dried weeds and bones. It sneered at them disdainfully.

“No,” Castiel said carefully. “I have work for you.”

The shade laughed, unexpectedly enough. It was a low, rumbling noise that nearly made Castiel smile. But it is important not to show emotion, or vulnerability of any kind, when dealing with shadow creatures, else they decide to take advantage of that weakness. “Look, I don’t think so. Thanks and all, but I’m not exactly looking for employment. So why don’t you just send me back downstairs and we’ll just forget this ever happened, huh?”

Castiel frowned. A damned soul asking to be returned to Hell? It was unheard of. Shades are notoriously selfish and cunning creatures, trying to con themselves out of servitude only to wreak havoc on the world they’d been summoned to – perhaps this one was trying to trick him somehow?

He paused for a moment before responding. “That’s not going to happen. You are in my service, now. This is non-negotiable.”

It frowned. “What?” it asked flatly.

Castiel stood then, trying not to sway. He felt drained, exhausted from the extensive ritual. “Come. We should begin.”

The shade’s eyes flared, and Castiel was bizarrely relieved to see a bit of Hell’s fury cracking loose under that veneer of solidity. “I’m not your _slave._ You don’t _own_ me. Put me back,” it demanded.

“I don’t serve man and I certainly don’t serve you,” Castiel replied coolly. “Let’s go. There is much to be done.”

Suddenly, the shade was gone.

Castiel blinked around the clearing, searching for any signs of the being he’d awakened. A brief rush of panic flashed like ice through his veins, and Castiel took a deep breath to clear it. _It’s impossible for it to go very far; it carries my brand, it is tied to me,_ he recited to himself, gathering up his supplies. His shade would return eventually. It had no choice in the matter.

 

Castiel’s little cottage was dark and cold when he returned. His tables had accumulated a little dust, and the books whose pages he’d left exposed to the air now smelled faintly of rain and mildew. His cat was nowhere to be found, probably fending for herself somewhere.

He preoccupied himself by tidying things up, getting ready for the visitor he was expecting. The premonition of the cloaked figure arriving at his doorstep still haunted him as he went about his tasks, clouded his mind with fear. The dream had come to him three times now, and couldn’t have been coincidence. To ease his thoughts he retreated to the gardens in the back, only to see that the coriander was growing a bit out of control. The adder’s tongue looked positively pitiful. Castiel huffed quietly to himself and dug his fingertips into the soft soil, kneading and plucking away as he saw fit.

At least he would have something else to think about for a while.

When he went back into the cottage – still unlit, the moonlight would be enough for now – the shade was reclining in his armchair rather morosely, glaring at Castiel over its crossed arms with stormy eyes. He blinked and couldn’t help smirking a little. “You’re back, I see.”

The shade grunted.

Castiel tucked some loose vials away into his cabinet and turned to face the shade again. “Do you have a name you prefer?” Castiel asked it.

It glared at him pointedly and then turned its head away. Ah, so it would be the silent treatment then. Castiel could play this game. He didn’t need much from it other than its vehemence. Properly directed, of course.

The shade’s temper (predictably) returned. “I didn’t _ask_ for this, ok. Who do you think you are, yanking people back where they don’t belong, ordering them around?”

Castiel hadn’t been aware that shades _complained_ so much. “I would think any task I have for you is better than orders from Hell,” he told it, not really understanding.

The shade’s eyes narrowed. “Well, you’re wrong.” It crossed its arms tighter around itself and burrowed deeper into Castiel’s chair. Castiel gave up on it for the moment and wandered into his small kitchen, hoping to dig up something that had a little more flavor; a small indulgence Castiel would allow himself as a reward for his hard work and to gather a portion of his former strength back. “I was good at it, you know,” the shade called from the other room. “You wouldn’t believe what I did to some of the other souls down there,” it said. Its voice was dark, threatening.

Castiel, munching on some dried mangoes Balthazar had gifted to him, returned to the shade’s presence. “Ah, you’re trying to intimidate me now. It won’t work.”

The shade curled its upper lip. “I could rip you limb from limb.”

Castiel tilted his head. “Would that give you joy? To destroy me?”

The shade’s murderous expression melted away in an instant in place of a charming grin. “Oh, I’d like nothing more.”

Castiel saw no joy in its face. He saw guilt, regret, raw pain, a hint of… terror? What a peculiar spirit this was. “What are you called?” he asked again, a little calmer. Perhaps he could soothe whatever fear was causing it to lash out. He always preferred speaking to spirits by their names; they were usually more cooperative that way.

“Dean Winchester,” it told him reluctantly. “At your service,” it hissed cruelly.

 _Dean Winchester._ Strange. A spirit had never given him its whole name before. That was too much power for a mortal to wield over the ethereal – a name was all it had, after all, in this endless void. He was normally given false names, strong titles like ‘Azazel’ or ‘Alastair.’ The name ‘Dean’ rolled off the shade’s tongue too smoothly to be a lie.

“You may call me Castiel,” he told him.

“May I?” Dean replied in monotone. “So tell me, Cas, how exactly did you manage to haul me out of The Pit?” he asked.

“I’m a necromancer,” Castiel told him.

“So you like dead things,” Dean continued tonelessly.

Castiel narrowed his eyes. “They rarely give me so much trouble, to be frank,” he said.

Dean laughed again, but this was more genuine – a nice, light chuckle. “If you think I’m trouble now…” he trailed off.

There was a brief pause, as Castiel was unsure how to respond to Dean’s remark. “Why me? I’m really nothin’ special,” the shade asked instead.

Castiel shrugged. “I can’t explain why. I was simply meant to find you.”

Dean rolled his eyes and kicked his feet up higher, apparently done with his line of questioning.

Castiel knew better than to ask what Dean did to get himself thrown into Hell. It was undoubtedly gruesome and he did not want to know. He raised Dean for protection purposes only; he wasn’t meant to care about his afterlife.

“So what did you even raise me for? I’m your… what, your bodyguard?”

Castiel shook his head. “I don’t think this encounter will ever come to violence. Your presence is a precaution, Dean.”

Dean frowned. “You must have pissed some people off.”

Castiel shrugged uncomfortably. “I’ve caused a bit of a stir amongst my peers, but while some people may have dark intentions I don’t think they should ever act on them. Still, I _am_ expecting a visit in the next few days, and –”

“You want to be careful,” Dean finished for him, straightening in the chair. “I get it.”

Castiel nodded. “Most likely, I’ll not have need of you this entire time. After which point of course I will release you and you’ll be free to return to Hell, or –”

“Or what?” Dean interrupted, scoffing.

“Or continue to Heaven, if you’d like. I could cleanse you.” Castiel wasn’t entirely sure what prompted him to offer salvation to the temperamental shade; it wasn’t a mercy that was often granted, as the ritual required a significant amount of power. Castiel was one of his coven’s most promising students, and he felt confident he could free Dean if he asked it of him. He bore the creature no ill will, truly – and especially not if he performed well for him.

Dean said nothing at first, simply continued to scrutinize him, and Castiel fidgeted beneath his dark gaze. Dean’s eyes appeared almost black in the shadows, though the poor necromancer had been thinking of their light color since he’d made contact. “Don’t bother,” the shade said at last.

Castiel had expected this answer; he was already beginning to grasp the stubborn nature of his companion.

“Alright. But if you change your mind…”

“I won’t.”

Castiel sighed and put a few more jars away into the cabinets. He dusted off his hands and rubbed his eyes with the backs of his hands. “I’m going to sleep. You’re welcome to explore the house, the back gardens, and the surrounding forest. There is a light tether in place that will keep you from wandering too far, but you are by no means a prisoner here,” he told the figure slumped in the chair. “If you’d like anything, please help yourself. I only ask that you clean up afterwards.”

Dean frowned like he was distrustful of Castiel’s offer. “Thanks,” he said suspiciously. Castiel gave him a small smile and reached out hesitantly, giving the shade’s shoulder a pat. He was pleasantly surprised that he didn’t faze right through him, that Dean had managed to hold a corporeal form in this world. Dean seemed as surprised as he was, if not more so.

“Goodnight, Dean.”

“Yeah, uh. Night.” He rolled his shoulder.

Castiel went upstairs to his room and left the door ajar. He stripped off his black robes, checking around the room that all of his wards were still in place, and grabbed a pair of loose pants and a long, worn blue tunic that Hael always told him matched his eyes nicely. He snuggled deep into his blankets, pulled them up over his nose, and mumbled a brief protection charm. He refused to think on the dread settling low in his gut, the menace looming on the horizon, and instead preoccupied himself with recitations to help himself fall asleep.

 

The dream returned with force that night.

A hooded figure, robes black as grave dirt trailing behind him in the wind, leaned against the doorframe of his cottage. A glass vial crunched in his grip. Light sparked on a dangerous swirling mixture, viscous and crimson. The leer of his wide, deep set eyes, the shine of his teeth; the whole thing reeked of proposition and treachery. Castiel could see it as if it were happening in real time: the wind would blow the windows out, the candles would flare bright and then pop out, and the smile on the man in the doorway would curdle into something mean.

This was Fergus Crowley, a corrupted, rejected warlock of the order. Once a tentative companion of Castiel’s many centuries ago, Crowley was now thought as the bane and ghost story of this land. The sorcerer hadn’t been seen in over three hundred years, just after he’d attempted to wrestle complete control over a Hell Gate, like the one he’d raised Dean from only hours ago. The failure left him weak and smoldering, but he had tenacity that even their mentors were wary of. The High Priestess Visyak and her loyalists banished him to the mountains at his weakest moment. Castiel could never forget the look of utter spite in his eyes when he hadn’t spoken up and defended him before the order.

Castiel woke in a cold sweat, and was soothed only with the knowledge that a being of darkness that could truly rival Crowley’s was watching the door downstairs.

 

When he woke again in the morning, there was very little out of place. As usual, the birds outside were quiet (they didn’t like to come anywhere near Castiel’s home), but the cicadas were buzzing excitedly. His salt lines were undisturbed, his runes were untouched. Everything was in its proper place, at least in here.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stretched a little, popping his neck as he rolled it back with a breathy sigh. He stood, rubbing his bleary eyes, and shuffled down into the kitchen. Dean wasn’t in the chair. Castiel assumed he was outside somewhere, exploring.

He made himself tea from leaves that he grew himself on the windowsill. It was bitter and heady: the perfect antidote to fatigue (and the lingering sense of foreboding tumbling around in his gut). He blinked groggily at the sunlight streaming in through the window and couldn’t help frowning. It was so bright out. It was going to rain exactly four days from now. Castiel blew on his drink and sipped again.

“Morning.”

Castiel jumped and nearly dropped his mug. He did manage to spill tea all over his arm, which stung pretty badly, but the cup was recovered. With a tiny hiss, he set it down and stumbled over to the medicine cabinet. “Good morning, Dean,” he grumbled, taking down some aloe gel.

Dean looked mildly concerned when the necromancer met his eyes, but his troubled expression quickly cleared to something much more amused. “Not much of a morning person?”

Castiel shook his head and slathered a little of the soothing balm on his arm. “Not particularly. I prefer darkness, when the moon is out.”

“The word you’re looking for is ‘night,’ Cas,” Dean told him, leaning up against the wall opposite of Castiel.

He acquiesced a small smile as he rubbed in the balm. “You’re right, Dean.”

He didn’t bother to mention eclipses.

Dean watched Castiel’s treatment process with a little pucker between his eyes. Castiel wanted to smooth it away with his thumb – his face was shadowed even in the glorious light of morning. “Don’t you have a spell for that?” the shade asked him. He then clamped his lips tightly together like he wished he hadn’t said anything at all.

Castiel huffed a little laugh. “Unfortunately, my powers don’t extend to the world of the living,” he explained. “Only things long departed, or the inanimate.”

Dean’s frown intensified. “What about the garden out back?”

Castiel was surprised he even noticed it. To anyone else, it would probably more resemble a tangle of weeds than a garden (that’s just because Castiel has always had his own way of doing things, and prefers organic growth to neatly pruned stalks). “I just have a green thumb, I think,” he told him softly.

Dean’s lips twitched into a small smile at that, and he shook his head slowly as he answered, “Boy, you are something else.”

Castiel went to toss the rag into the sink, so that he could remember to rinse it out later. “Did you go exploring this morning?” he asked.

Dean nodded. “Yeah. In the… woods.” Despite being amused by him, he still seemed distrustful of Castiel, like he was expecting to be thrown back to the wolves at any moment. After spending forty years in literal Hell, Castiel could understand where the wariness came from.

“Did you make any new friends?”

Dean scoffed. “Is that a joke? What friends can you make in a fuckin’ forest?” he asked.

Castiel ignored his vulgarity. “Plenty. Certain species of beetle are very perceptive, you know. They’re great listeners.”

Dean laughed, low and throaty, and Castiel thought that he had won some precious prize at having drawn out the sound. “I don’t think anyone gets along well with a shade.”

Castiel shrugged. “You and I get along just fine.”

Dean rolled his eyes impatiently. “‘S not like I have much of a choice with you.”

Castiel shook his head. “I’m not asking you to be my friend, Dean, I’m enlisting your service for a temporary period. That’s all.” His superiors’ words rang through his head: Rule Number 1 of Necromancy – do not get attached to your projects!

Dean tilted his head. “So this is a transaction. A business deal.”

“Yes,” Castiel clarified.

“Well, shouldn’t I get something in return?” Dean asked. “If I agree to help you, and do what you say?”

 _It doesn’t work that way,_ he wanted to say. _I dragged you out of Hell, and I can throw you back in. You should show me some respect; I am not some cheap conjurer you may barter with and con._

But his curiosity got the better of him, and instead of using the familiar threat of oblivion Castiel tilted his head in thought. What could a shade possibly want from him, and one so different from every other he’d ever encountered? “Assuming you perform faithfully, salvation would be your reward,” he answered diplomatically.

“And if I don’t want salvation?”

Castiel shrugged. “Then I’m open to other means of compensation.”

And for the first time since he’d been raised, Dean smiled a genuine, wide grin, and Castiel’s mortal heart stuttered in his chest. Dean must have been so beautiful in his past life; even now Castiel was a little flustered, despite the chaos and darkness that clung to the edges of him like a thick sludge. “Now you’re speakin’ my language, Cas.” He kicked off the wall and approached him, coming closer than he ever had before. “Say I fight your battle for you. When I’m all done protecting your honor, you’re gonna take me on a little trip. How’s that sound?”

“Trip to where?”

Dean shrugged. “Ain’t no use talkin’ about it now. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it, how ‘bout that?” He grinned wolfishly and held out a hand. It shook a little, shimmering around the edges where he wasn’t quite solid. “Shake on it?”

Castiel hesitated, but ultimately took the shade’s hand in his.

“Deal.”

 

They reached a sort of truce after that. Crowley was due to arrive that day, but in knowing the weather patterns Castiel was almost certain he would be delayed. In the meantime, he would find little ways to keep Dean occupied around the house, properly walking him through the gardens and showing off with little tricks (the worm summoning did not strike him the way Castiel had hoped it would; in fact the shade seemed a tad repulsed at their wriggling). Dean was surprisingly patient, always acting like he was listening to what Castiel had to say and even cracking a smile here or there. Perhaps it was only because he was now going to get something out of their arrangement, but he was much more agreeable than he had ever been before.

He did not, however, take very kindly to Meg. The cat returned later that same afternoon, pawing at Castiel’s ankle for attention – and lunch, presumably. Castiel bestowed his customary greeting – a smile and a scratch between the ears – and heard Dean let out an incredulous, “Achoo.”

Castiel turned to look at him slowly, only to find that his shade and his cat were glaring at each other, unblinking. “I’m allergic to cats,” Dean declared slowly, and with fierce gravitas. Meg yowled, unimpressed by him.

Castiel bit back a laugh and whispered for Meg, who trotted daintily to his side to accept some fish paste from his fingers.

“Yugh,” Dean commented, glaring at the cat from the doorway. Meg’s tail flicked lazily in response. She didn’t deign give him the slightest satisfaction of a reaction. Castiel thought the whole thing was pretty ridiculous.

“Be nice,” he whispered to her, sweetening the deal with the incentive of more fish. Meg ignored him – as usual – and snapped up the chunks of food, licking her nose as it all went down. “If you’d like, Dean, I can put Meg outside for the duration of your visit.”

And that certainly got her attention. Meg _hated_ the outdoors, and only went out when her cabin fever got so bad that she needed to chase a few birds to feel like her old, crotchety self again. She loathed getting her hair wet, and could usually be found curled up on one of Castiel’s pillows or lounging in the front hall in the sun. The threat of taking away her comfortable napping spots was enough to send her into a terse detente with the shade for the rest of the day.

Dean snickered as she scampered off the counter, and Castiel wiped his hands clean. “I have to replenish some of my supplies since the raising ritual,” he explained to Dean. “Would you like to observe?”

Intrigued, Dean leaned back and watched Castiel get to work.

From the cabinet, Castiel took down the jar of beeswax Hannah had sent him for his birthday last summer and a thin piece of string weighted with a small, smooth pebble at one end. He set these items aside and pulled down two small pots hanging above the window, partially covered by drying herbs and flowers. He filled one about halfway with water, but had to pause when he heard Dean chuckling quietly to himself. Castiel gathered his materials in his arms. “What’s funny?” he asked, squinting and tilting his head.

Dean gestured vaguely at the necromancer. “You know, when you reached down to pull me out of The Pit, there were rumors of a great and powerful being made of light and wrath, with the strength of a hundred demons, coming to claim some poor soul for his own. But you’re really just some dorky guy in the woods who melts his own candles,” Dean chuckled.

Castiel pursed his lips and nodded down at the brand he knew was on Dean’s shoulders – a shiny red handprint, like a signature on his best work – with a slight smirk. “I am, indeed, _all_ of those things,” he told him, and then shouldered past him to exit through the back door.

Dean was quiet during the melting process. He watched diligently as Castiel deposited the chunks of wax into one pot and placed it inside the other, nestling it in the water. He lit a fire underneath the double boiler and went back inside. “Keep an eye on that,” he instructed Dean, patting his shoulder again as he passed.

Dean, stunned by both the gesture and the command, actually did what he was told. He stuck his finger into the wax bowl experimentally, but felt nothing. Just a little sticky. He wiggled the digit around periodically to keep the smaller pieces from burning.

Castiel returned moments later with a few metal implements: what looked like a stirring stick and a mold, just a thin sheet of metal wrapped around itself in a skinny column. There was a yellow dishtowel slung over his shoulder. Dean was just as shocked by the small surge of affection he felt wash over him as he watched Castiel stir the wax, rambling on about the benefits of plant versus bee wax and why it’s difficult to get the latter to hold scent or color, but the natural aroma is pleasing as it is. Dean was actually at ease crouched among the weeds and listening.

He hadn’t felt this relaxed in a very, very long time.

Castiel repeated the candle making process several times until he had a small stack of them. He dusted off his hands and tapped out the fire with a sigh. “I’ll need to make more in the future, but these should do for now. I’ll need to send word to Balthazar – I’m running out of chalk as well,” he murmured, packing up his equipment.

Dean discreetly moved the cooling candles out of the path of one of Castiel’s wayward limbs, and frowned a little. “Balthazar?” he asked.

Castiel nodded, faint smile on his face. “Yes, he’s a colleague of sorts. We went through our apprenticeship together. He’s quite gifted, but prefers to travel and spread his talents. He sends me gifts sometimes from wherever he goes, exotic plants and dyes and things,” he explained. He stood. “It’s been a while since I’ve heard from him. Last I heard he was somewhere tropical.”

Dean hummed and nodded, pleased that at least Castiel seemed to have a few friends even way the hell out here. “Why do you live out here all by yourself?” He paused. “I mean, apart from Meg,” he amended.

Castiel shrugged jerkily, like he wasn’t used to the motion, and set his things in the basin that constituted his sink. He’d deal with them later. “I like the peace and quiet. The trees here are very old, and I feel wizened to be in the presence of such…” he trailed off, trying to locate the right word.

“Vitality?” Dean tried, sounding sheepish.

Castiel turned the word over in his head and smile at him. “Yes, exactly. Vitality.”

Dean smiled at him, a little proudly, and Castiel returned it.

 

All it took was a single shift in the atmosphere, and Castiel was immediately on guard. “He’s here,” he announced.

Dean leaned forward in his chair, tilting his head like he was listening to the very air. A lone raven landed on Castiel’s windowsill.

Dean stood, pulsating angrily by Castiel’s side. “I don’t like this,” he murmured. “I feel on edge, like I’m back in…” He didn’t need to finish his sentence.

Castiel nodded seriously at the remark. “This is very dark magic you’re about to witness, Dean. Stay out of sight for as long as possible. Do not rise to any of Crowley’s taunts. You are only a last resort.”

The raven on the sill swiveled its head and locked its beady eyes with Castiel’s.

Discreetly, Dean edged closer to the necromancer. The bird spread its wings with a crow, and was gone in a flurry of black feathers.

Dean could breathe easier once the damned thing was gone, but there was something that had his hair standing on end, his eyes twitching back and forth from the corners like a paranoid child. The air was practically charged with it, and already he felt like he was suffocating.

He’d always hated black magic. Always. When he’d been raised he figured Castiel was another one of those condemned sorcerers, intent on breaking the precious balance of the world for selfish gain, but feeling _this_ now made the shade think even more differently of him.

There were much worse things out there in the world than Castiel, with his dishtowels and beeswax.

They came with a quiet knock and a harsh gust of wind.

Castiel approached his front door calmly, holding a hand out behind him to stay Dean. “Remember what I told you,” he rumbled quietly. How was he keeping his composure like this? He pulled the door open, and let the evil leak in.

Fergus Crowley was not an intimidating man in stature; he was short and stocky and balding, with fat fingers and hooded eyes. It was the billowing cloak, the sneer, the charms and scars on him that changed him. “Castiel,” he greeted, in his foreign, lilting accent. “You’re looking well.”

Castiel nodded at him cordially. “Hello, Crowley. Come in, please.”

“Oh, I’m fine where I am, love,” Crowley replied, nodding meaningfully at the runes poking out from under Castiel’s throw rug. Protection charms, banishing sigils. Anything to keep evil out.

Castiel sighed and leaned heavily against the door while Dean watched it all from his spot in the kitchen. His hands were clenched into fists – he crossed his arms to keep from lashing out. There was a lot of rage still in him, a lot of hellfire and brimstone, but he was not here to play. He was here to protect Castiel.

And right now there was nothing standing between his charge and the menace he’d been warned of.

“You’re here for a reason, I assume,” Castiel said, waving his hand.

Crowley grinned at him, light and easy. “Naturally.” He straightened his shoulders and shifted into a professional façade, sleek and slimy and detestable. “Opportunity has literally come knocking at your door, Castiel. I’ve decided to let you in on a little venture of mine, one that I think we’d both profit from.”

Castiel had expected this. “What have you brought?” he asked, blunt and to the point.

Crowley shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and leaned forward, like he was whispering a secret. “What do you know about Purgatory?” he purred.

Castiel recoiled like he’d been struck. “You’re more foolish than I thought you were, Crowley.”

The sorcerer barely even seemed to register the insult, becoming more impassioned about his cause. “I know how to open the door,” he admitted in a singsong tone of voice. “Think of it, Castiel: a whole realm untouched by this, overflowing with power that you wouldn’t believe. Monsters older than creation. Secrets God himself has kept from us. Don’t you want to see them? Don’t you want to know what God knows?”

Castiel’s grip on the door tightened. Of course he wanted to see Purgatory. He’d read the myths, he always believed in its existence. It’s why he’d gotten into necromancy: the exploration of the dead worlds. But the Grand Coven and its High Priestess were insistent: no one was to touch that wretched place. It was limbo, between Hell and Heaven and this earth. It was rot and stagnancy and erosion of memory. They say that the trees there grow thick, though the sun never rises.

(What are they feeding on?)

But Crowley could care less about metaphysics and the warnings of their teachers. Crowley was _power hungry_. He wanted to harness the rawness of it, claim it for his own, rule over it. Like he’d tried – and failed – to do with Hell. Castiel could see it in his eyes.

“I’m not going to help you take Purgatory. There’s nothing you could say to change my mind,” he said decidedly.

Crowley sighed dejectedly. “Well that’s a shame. Dear old Eleanor will have died for nothing, then.”

Castiel froze. Eleanor? Despite his loyalty to her in the past, hers was not a name he’d heard for some time. “What have you done?” he hissed. “Crowley, what have you _done_?”

Crowley grinned. “Honestly, Castiel. Where do you think I got this?”

He pulled the glass vial from the inside pocket of his cloak, slicking its walls with the liquid inside. It was the same one from Castiel’s dream, and his worst fears were realized. Blood. That was blood.

Crowley continued talking as if nothing had happened, taunting Castiel by rolling the vial between his fingers. “The blood of an Ancient, the highest in our order, and the ritual to open the door. Knew I’d get it out of her eventually.”

Castiel nearly rushed forward, nearly snatched the bottle from his palm and smashed it on the threshold. How dare he disgrace her form, pillage and violate her body for this _perversion._ This _blasphemy._ Crowley watched him clench his jaw, smiled as he writhed. “Go on then, pet. Take it. I know The Priestess was your friend, your closest teacher. You want to, don’t you?” He held it out for him, just before the lip of the entrance. He narrowed his eyes at Castiel and smirked. “Take it and teach me a lesson. We both know you won’t be able to toss it.”

Castiel regarded the glass coolly, fingers twitching with want. Damn Crowley and his games. Damn him. “No use crying over spilt blood, Cassie,” Crowley murmured. “I could just… hand it over,” he said, lowering his voice further. Castiel watched the blood slick the sides of the vial, gut rolling with guilt and disgust.

He wasn’t going to take it. He knew he wasn’t. But if Crowley were offering, if he had Eleanor’s blood for himself, would he be able to resist opening Purgatory on his own? He’d rather have her blood in _his_ hands than Crowley’s. Crowley was practically incompetent, weakened after his attempt on the Hell Gate. Castiel could force the ritual out of him easily. He already needed Castiel to complete the ritual for him; he was the only one still in the order Crowley could trust, who was capable and curious enough to take whatever bargain was offered to him. The opportunity to see all that Crowley had described… it was tempting to say the least.

Castiel was tensed to snap, torn apart by his dithering, but suddenly there was a steady weight by his shoulder. “Leave this place,” Dean hissed. “Take your curse with you.”

Crowley’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second, and it was the closest thing Castiel had ever seen to real fear on his face. He covered it quickly with a scowl. “Don’t believe I was talking to you,” he said, breaking the spell between him and Castiel. Without those eyes on him, he could breathe easier. He dug his fingernails out of the wood of the door and dropped his hand to his side.

Dean narrowed his eyes viciously. Castiel could see the soft edges melt away from him, the green of his eyes swallowed by murky black, and the thick, choking smoke wafting off of him in horror and warning. The danger of him didn’t sit right with the image of the patient man he’d caught glimpses of. “Don’t come back,” he said, and his voice sounded more grating, like a shriek of an animal. There was an undertone of malice that Castiel had never heard before.

Crowley regarded the shade carefully and leaned back, taking the vial of Eleanor Visyak’s blood with him. Castiel’s eyes followed it. Crowley could not open the portal alone; that’s why he needed Castiel. For now, if Crowley left peacefully, the door would remain closed.

Castiel would have to ensure that Crowley’s further meddling would be put to rest, but that was a task for another time.

Crowley gave him a dark look, and pocketed the vial again. “I’ll give you some time to think about it. If in a fortnight you’re still not interested…” He smiled a little. “Well,” he drawled, “then I guess I’ll have some more coven blood to add to my collection.”

Castiel nodded tersely at him. “Goodbye, Crowley,” he prompted.

Crowley saluted him with two fingers. “Always a pleasure,” he said. He slid his eyes over to Dean. “Demon,” he bade, with no small amount of condescension. _You can’t protect him forever,_ he thought. As if the shade could read his mind, it crowded protectively in front of Castiel. _Neat trick,_ Crowley thought, _training a shade to be so loyal._

The raven swooped low and perched on Crowley’s shoulder with a loud caw. He glanced back at it, and snapped his fingers.

There was nothing but a black feather in the spot where he once stood.

 

Dean slammed the door angrily and stomped away, but Castiel was struck dumb to the floor. _Purgatory. So that’s what Crowley’s up to._

He couldn’t believe he’d been let go so easily. He knew Crowley would be following up, and the knowledge that he’d been thwarted – and likely would be rejected again in the future – would make him even more dangerous. His parting threat was not an idle one.

“That guy is bad news, Cas. Really, really bad. You’ve got to get out of here,” Dean told him, stepping around Meg and opening a cabinet. Was he looking for something? “He’ll be back, and you’ve got to get somewhere he won’t find you.”

Castiel blinked and finally shook himself free of the stupor that overtook him. “Dean,” he tried to say.

“I’m not kidding, Cas. He comes back, and I don’t know what he’ll try. He’s desperate and he’s using you, you get that, right?” Dean continued. “He’ll kill you either way!” His voice was so loud in this small cottage, and he took a steadying breath. “Purgatory’s not a joke. There are things in there that were never meant to see the light of day.” His back was to Castiel, but he couldn’t help wonder if his eyes would be green right now, or black.

Castiel noticed he was trembling.

He approached the shade slowly, who was still rifling through the cabinets, and put a hand on his forearm. Castiel searched his eyes – still flat and black – and saw that Dean was straining hard to keep his jaw clenched.

Tentatively, Castiel lifted his free hand to the shade’s face, fitted his palm around the curve of his head, smoothed his thumb along his cheek. Dean sagged with a little sigh, and closed his eyes. “I mean it,” he said, the fight slowly draining out of him.

Castiel continued working his thumb along Dean’s skin and shook his head. “I made you a promise. I’ll take you where you need to go. That should keep me away from here for long enough.” Dean opened his eyes, and they were green again.

Castiel removed his hand from the shade’s face and shook his head. “But I can’t keep running from him. Crowley must be dealt with, in good time,” he promised. Perhaps there was a part of _himself_ he needed to confront as well; he didn’t like how close he’d been to tossing Crowley aside and confiscating Eleanor’s blood for himself. Some fresh air might be good for him.

His eyes flicked nervously to Dean’s, and then away again. “Besides,” he said slowly. “You can’t protect me forever. Our deal was that after this meeting, I’d take you where you wanted. After that you’ll be returned to Hell.”

“That’s bullshit,” Dean blurted. No way could Castiel turn him away now, not when he needed him the most. If this Crowley guy was capable of torturing and bleeding an old teacher of theirs for information, the High Priestess of the Grand Coven, he didn’t even want to think about what he had in store for a non-compliant Castiel. He was a man possessed.

Castiel looked too tired to argue with him, so Dean let the issue drop. “We can leave in the morning,” Castiel told him wearily.

Dean nodded. Mollified, Castiel let go of his arm; the spot was warm where he had touched him.

 

Castiel didn’t ask Dean where they were going. Not for lack of interest, but the one time he’d asked, Dean had gone very quiet, contemplative almost, and wouldn’t answer. He’d been loyal – almost to a fault – until now, and Castiel had no reason to doubt him, even if the shade’s power was greater than he initially expected. He’d let him lead the way.

They set out with a few provisions for Castiel – only he needed shelter and food and sleep – and a promise to Meg that he’d be back soon. They went west, following the path of the sun, until they passed out of the forest and onto the plains.

“I very rarely come out here anymore,” Castiel said. “I can’t even remember when the last time was. The world has probably changed since I last walked it,” he continued somberly. He still was not sure what they would find out here in the wild.

Dean peered back at him incredulously. “Cas, how old _are_ you, exactly?”

Castiel shrugged. “I haven’t exactly been counting, but I’ve been on this earth for over two thousand years.”

Dean sputtered a little. “Dude! You’re ancient!”

Castiel snorted. “Hardly.”

They walked in companionable silence, occasionally pointing out wildlife or eye-catching plants. At one point Dean picked up a rock – amazing he could hold it so easily, being incompletely corporeal as he was – and chucked it in the brush. What little small talk they shared was weighed heavy by the anticipation hanging in the air.

Dean hadn’t been on Earth for some time now either; turning his fresh eyes onto the world was incredible to witness. He did recognize some landmarks, especially the further they got from the forest, and some faded road signs (not that there were many). But he was shocked by how tall the trees were, how lush the wild-grass was, touched only by the gypsies who wandered this land and the flocks of fauna native here. He trailed his fingers over the tips of it, and Castiel was captivated by the peaceful smile on his face. Who would have thought that a shade could feel calm, be fond of places, have wants and dreams and memories?

They traveled for most of the day, taking short breaks for Castiel to eat or rest. Once the sun was far ahead of them instead of behind, Dean allowed them to stop for Castiel to make camp for the night. The sky was clear and the night was warm, and Castiel stretched his back as he stared up at the stars. “I believe I was born a Cancer,” he said. His soft voice carried on the breeze.

Dean craned his neck to follow his gaze. “Is that up there?” he asked.

Castiel shook his head. “No, it isn’t the right time of year. Do you know your birth sign?” he asked.

Dean nodded. “I’m an Aquarius.”

“Ah,” Castiel murmured, like a puzzle had been solved.

Dean frowned. “What?”

Castiel smirked a little to himself. “You’re stubborn and rebellious. That figures.” _Aquarius loves to make people laugh and cheer people up – it makes him happy to make others happy. He does not expect, and neither hopes for, anything in return. Attachments hinder his freedom._

Dean snorted. “Oh please. You can’t honestly think our fates are written out in the stars, can you?”

Castiel nodded. “I don’t, generally, but I can understand the impulse to believe so.”

Confused by this answer, Dean crossed his arms. “Oh yeah, well, what do they say about Cancers?”

“That they are self-pitying and self-absorbed,” Castiel answered back. “But also very dependable.”

Dean laughed, a boom that echoed off the stillness, and slapped a shimmering hand down on Castiel’s shoulder. “Don’t ever change, Cas,” he said.

“Alright,” Castiel replied, though he really didn’t understand what Dean meant.

 

The next day Dean was far less talkative, which Castiel understood meant that they were getting close to their destination.

The plains had thinned out a bit, turning to shorter, thicker grass, resilient and rooted deep in fertile soil. This was tamer country, but still uninhabited. He didn’t like it so much here – it was too wide, too open, too free, and Castiel felt exposed in the raw sun with no cover to find refuge in.

The road they were on was barren on either side. There was barely a road to stand on in the first place: what remained was wide and dusty and melted into the rest of the crumbling landscape. Still, Castiel was sort of taken with the rolling hills, the waves of wheat and corn that swayed in the wind like a living, breathing chest. There was something charming and pure about the place, even if it was uncomfortable and new. He’d never even realized it existed way out here.

He was too busy looking around to realize that Dean had stopped walking and was looking at something in the distance with his hands in his pockets. Castiel nearly bumped into him on the road. “What is it?” he asked.

Dean didn’t answer him, but inclined his head towards the view before them. Castiel followed his gaze.

Down a winding stretch of the same dirt trail, a little blue house was nestled in an overgrown field. Even from here, Castiel could see that it was weather worn and torn apart by age. He stared at it for a while, and Dean hesitantly began to approach it. Castiel jogged up to him and followed.

When they reached the end of the trail, Castiel realized the house was in worse shape than he thought: the entire left side of the house was charred and crumbling. Doors and shutters dangled precariously from their hinges. The roof sagged and was spotted with holes. It was a sad looking abode, is what it was.

Dean shook his head slowly, and his words came as a surprise. “It shouldn’t… I mean. I didn’t think it would affect me this much. I thought being… well I thought I’d forgotten what it would feel like looking at it,” Dean confessed, staring at the field and the charred remains of the house that stood there. “But I still remember.”

Castiel waited, knowing Dean had more to say.

His voice was quiet when he spoke again. “I wish I couldn’t feel a damn thing.”

Castiel turned, the significance of this place suddenly clear to him. “This was your home,” he gasped quietly.

Dean nodded after a brief pause. “Used to be. A long time ago.”

They stood there together for a long time. It was such a humble beginning for a creature of such great magnitude, Castiel thought. A cradle of life, marred by time and the elements, turned black and bitter like the man who’d been born of it. Castiel had so many questions: _what happened here? Where was this family now?_

Dean had his own ghosts to lay to rest, Castiel realized. The shade made an aborted movement towards the house, like he wanted to go inside, but he only clenched his fists tightly instead and frowned at the dirt.

“It’s been forty years, Dean,” Castiel reminded him gently. He didn’t know the story, but the way Dean was staring determinedly at the burnt boards made him hope that whatever he was carrying could be absolved from this distance.

The shade smiled bitterly. “Yeah.” He kicked a little rock by his foot and huffed to himself. “Let’s go.”

Castiel frowned as Dean began walking away, back down the main road. “That’s it?” he asked.

Dean’s shoulders were tense, Castiel could tell. He didn’t respond to Castiel’s question.

 

They were settled in for the night when Dean finally spoke again, gentle as a whisper.

“I was four,” he began.

Castiel perked his ears, but he dared not move from where he was curled against the ground.

Dean spoke softly of the fire that tore down his house as if it was still a living thing. He spoke of the death of his mother and the grief of his hardened father, who outlived her only by a few years more. Of a younger brother, the center of his world, the product of his undivided attention. He spoke like a proud parent, not a child in his own right, and still Castiel could hear the grief, the guilt, the burden Dean carried. “Sam was… Taking care of him was the most important thing I ever did.”

There were no lines that Dean wouldn’t cross for his brother, he confessed. All they had was each other, in this whole wide world and beyond. They traveled together, fought for their lives together. Common thieves and con men, the both of them, up through adulthood. Dean still repented for dragging his little brother through the muck and for not being able to do better by him. Castiel thought maybe this was the reason he thought he deserved to be returned to Hell; because he wrongly assumed he ruined his brother’s chance for happiness.

And then Sam got sick.

“So I made a deal.”

Castiel had not made one noise this whole time, but at this he had to speak up. “You sold your _soul_ to save your brother’s life?” he asked.

Dean shrugged. “What else could I do?”

Dean wasn’t evil at all. He didn’t _deserve_ Hell. This whole time that question had been plaguing him: how could something like Dean come from the underworld, and how was he expected to send him back to it? He was good and selfless, and he would endure that awful place until the ending of the world for the sake of a few more good years for his brother. Castiel was in shock, in awe of him.

Unknowingly, he’d pulled a righteous man from Hell.

“Dean…” Castiel said, unsure of what else to even say.

“It’s been too long. I don’t even know if he’s alive. I just, I don’t know, I thought… when I saw the house, I… hoped,” Dean said, waving his hand. “I hoped I’d find him settled down, maybe, with a wife and a big hairy dog.”

“He could still be out there, Dean. It hasn’t been that long,” Castiel told him. It wasn’t platitude; he believed it. He felt a strange pulse of hope tingling in his chest he didn’t feel he had a right to.

Dean shook his head. “If he really is still out there, dog and all… He’s moved on. That’s good for him,” he decided.

Castiel’s frown deepened. “Don’t you think he misses you?”

Dean smiled a little. “Yeah, I know he does. But I think he deserves his own life. He’s had his time to mourn and move past it. He got closure,” he decided. Looking down at his feet, he added, “I needed mine.”

Castiel considered this, but he just didn’t understand how Dean could think his own family would be better off without him.

Dean sucked a breath in and patted the ground. “I think I’m gonna… take a walk. You ok here?” he asked.

Castiel nodded. “Be safe,” he instructed, before curling into his mat.

Dean scoffed and shook his head. “I should be telling _you_ that,” he grumbled, moving away from the campsite. He hesitated, half turned away from him. “I’ll… see you in the morning?”

Ah yes, their deal. There were still so many questions left unanswered at the end of the day: how to proceed with Crowley, Dean’s own fate… Now that Castiel had taken him where he’d wanted to go, Dean was to be returned to Hell. Their transaction was complete.

But after having that last conversation, after the strange bond they’d forged today, could Castiel bring himself to do it?

It was a question for the next light, one that Castiel wasn’t sure he had the answer to (or the heart to follow through on).

“In the morning,” he promised instead.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel is a powerful necromancer living in the forest. A nightmare prophecy, unbidden, comes to him in a dream: the black magician Fergus Crowley will come for Castiel’s help with a little “project,” one that Castiel has absolutely no interest in. Fearful that Crowley’s visit to his home will turn into a forceful confrontation, Castiel uses his expertise to summon a shade for protection in case things get out of hand. In return for his services, the shade – a man damned forty years ago named Dean Winchester – asks for something in return.  
> Which man will prove to be the greater evil: Crowley, or Dean?
> 
> Conclusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINE HAVE IT YOUR WAY  
> I actually wrote a part II. There's a little more closure and some action in this one, plus some development on Dean and Castiel's relationship. Enjoy!  
> Follow me on [tumblr](http://ozonecologne.tumblr.com) for more spoopy hijinks and updates!

"Is there anywhere else you'd like to go?" Castiel asked him. He wasn't stalling, he figured. Just trying to honor a last request.

Dean shrugged and shook his head. He'd been silent that whole morning, and it bothered Castiel more than he'd care to admit. 

He waited for a verbal answer and when he received none, he sighed. "Well if you don't mind, I do need to finish stocking my shelves. I'd like to make a stop at the Lebanon market."

Dean clenched his jaw but nodded. "Sure," he said quietly. 

Castiel sighed again. There was a nice, chill breeze over the plains today, and the grass swayed gently under Castiel's hands. The stalks brushed against his thighs, dragged seed over his robe. The smell was heady and fresh, pure, natural. Castiel was looking forward to the walk.

He was not looking forward to the guilty silence that would undoubtedly stretch on until they reached Lebanon.

"I'm not angry," Dean told him as he helped Castiel over a boulder. "I understand, you know. It's just this whole visit has really... flipped me on my head," he confessed.

Castiel nodded. "I know. You held on to a hopeful vision of your home for the entirety of your damnation, and now that image has been shattered."

Dean scoffed. "Sensitive," he muttered sarcastically and under his breath.

Castiel frowned. "I didn't mean to offend you, only to tell you that I understand _why_ -"

"Forget it, Cas. Let's go get your dyes or whatever," Dean murmured, ducking his head. He was closing himself off, and maybe Castiel should have let him have his space. The instinct to  _comfort_  was a strange but not a foreign one; Castiel's words had proved ineffective, so instead of choosing to speak he stuck close by Dean's side for the duration of their hike, casually brushing arms and shoulders in small gestures of solidarity. It seemed to keep Dean at ease, but it just made Castiel feel worse.

How many more soft touches would Dean receive in his existence?

 

Lebanon was a bustling metropolis compared to the humble landscape both Dean and Castiel were used to. The market was teeming with sounds and smells and colors: flags branded with guild insignias, carts of fruit, livestock – there was a stretch of stalls solely dedicated to the sale and fashioning of luxury accessories: pendants and earrings fashioned from vampire fang ivory, perfumes distilled from harpy wing oil, jackets stitched of selkie skin. It was positively grisly; Castiel could feel the lingering energy of the angry dead whose bodies were put on display for sale.

He hadn’t been to a town like this is decades. It was all so much bigger than he remembered. The world changes so quickly – Castiel has never been able to keep up with it.

And yet, how charming it all was. Laughter and shrieks of delight ringing in his ears, the light layer of dust kicked up by merchants and hagglers that coated his forearms and his ankles, the stifling heat of bodies packed together and the sun on his face. So rarely did Castiel feel truly alive, particularly given his profession.

He picked up a few odds and ends, minerals that caught his eye or some swaths of ribbon, bags of herbs and dyes he could not make or procure himself. Dean stalked patiently at his side, eyes wandering to children running by a mud pit or a young woman smelling a rose. Castiel tried to put a hand on his shoulder consolingly, but his grip fazed right through him. Eventually he took pity on the poor soul and asked him to pop over to the graveyard and collect some flowering plants near the headstones. “Be sure to keep them separate. Don’t mix them up.”

Dean rolled his eyes, grumbled a bit (something about being a “creature of darkness” and “not your damn errand boy”), and then vanished. Castiel browsed the south end of the market by himself, feeling the soft edges of drapes and rugs. He had time to buy one small jar of red paint before Dean showed up again.

“I got daisies and something purple,” Dean told him, holding four distinct bouquets out between them. “You’re welcome.”

Cas sniffed them happily and nodded. “This is good. We’ll grind these up once we get back. I’ll let them dry out for now,” he said, tucking them into his satchel.

Dean frowned again, but seemed to be in a slightly better mood than this morning at least. “You and your dead things,” he sighed.

“I _really_ would have appreciated a handful or two of grave dirt, but I didn’t want to trouble you, All-Powerful Entity of Chaos,” Castiel mocked dryly, turning towards the road again.

“Don’t mock me,” Dean said, smiling as he shoved Cas’s shoulder. Castiel matched his grin with one of his own. “I can go back if you want – it should only take a second.”

Castiel considered it briefly before nodding. “Would you please?” he asked.

Dean nodded and widened his smile. “I’m getting good at the teleporting thing.”

“You’ve been practicing,” Castiel observed.

Dean shrugged, only a confirmation of Castiel’s observation. “Not much else to do while you sleep.”

A petal was stuck to Castiel’s sleeve. He picked it up and looked back up at the shade. “Thank you for the flowers, Dean. That was very sweet of you,” he joked.

Dean’s face reddened, a lovely blush spreading up and across his cheeks. Castiel was mesmerized by it.

He smiled secretly and waved a hand. “On your way, then,” he commanded.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, but winked. “Sure thing, boss.”

The shade turned with a flourish to jet off in the next second, but something made him pause. Gone was the shy embarrassment from only a moment ago; Dean’s gaze was fixed across the crowd, eyes wide and disbelieving, joy replaced with fear and recognition. Castiel frowned and turned his head.

There was a man hunched over the root vegetables, a canvas bag over his arm. His hair was long but gray and tied back out of his face, a few stray strands of dull auburn still poking through. He wore heavy jackets and the skin of his jaw sagged. Wrinkles littered his forehead, the corners of his mouth. Under his eyes were dark, but he didn’t look sad. Just... worn down. There was a light smile on his face as he made conversation with the seller and turned a turnip around in his spotted hands.

Castiel tilted his head. “Dean?” he asked in concern. “Are you alright?”

Dean took a few steps forward and shook his head. Suddenly, Dean just stopped, right in the middle of the market, like he was unsure of what do to.

“Dean,” Castiel repeated, getting a little worried.

The old man by the vegetables turned, and looked straight at Dean.

His eyebrows went up and up and up and the canvas bag finally tipped out of his hands. “…Dean?” he whispered, like he was afraid to say it.

Dean crossed the street to stand directly in front of the old man, and Castiel followed warily.

By his side, Dean gaped, eyes roaming all over the stranger. “S… Sam?” Dean asked. “Is it really you?”

“Oh my god,” Sam wheezed, rushing towards his phantom brother. “It can’t be,” he breathed.

Dean raised a tentative hand, doubtfully pausing with it in midair for a fatal moment, and placed it on the side of Sam’s neck. With a sweep of his thumb along his jaw, Sam choked around a laugh and Dean smiled tearfully. “Hey there, Sammy.”

Sam tried to put his hands on Dean’s shoulders, but it went right through him, smoke rippling around his fingers, and his face crumpled.

Dean gave him a sympathetic look. “Sorry. Cas hasn’t gotten me fully corporeal yet.” Castiel didn’t bother correcting him that bringing his corporeal body back would be an entirely separate process.

“Cas?” Sam asked, suddenly remembering Castiel’s presence. “Uh, hello,” Sam said uncertainly.

“Hello, Sam,” Castiel replied cordially. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Oh. Um, good things I hope?” Sam chuckled incredulously. “Dean, what _happened_ to you?” he asked his brother. “I saw you get ripped apart by those hellhounds. I _buried_ you,” he murmured.

Castiel recognized all of Dean’s nervous ticks: pursing his lips, eyes flicking around and never settling, fidgeting and clenching his hands. “Cas is a necromancer,” he said. “He, uh… he saved me. He pulled me out.”

Castiel felt his heart swell a little in affection, because Dean had got it backwards. It was Dean who saved Castiel – more ways than he could count.

Or maybe… maybe they were saving each other.

Sam’s eyes went wide. “No way. Cas wouldn’t happen to be short for ‘Castiel’ would it?” he asked.

Castiel frowned and tilted his head. “You’re… familiar with my work?”

Sam laughed. “No, no, not personally. But the trickster who travels through here, Gabriel, speaks very highly of you.”

Castiel smiled gratefully but dismissed the compliment. “Gabriel is an old friend. I’m glad you two have met.”

Dean flicked Sam’s ponytail with his fingers while his brother’s back was turned. “Man, you’re old,” he said reverently.

“Shut up, jerk,” Sam said, turning back around with a grin, some spark returned back to those old eyes. “At least I kept all my hair.”

Dean snorted. “I’m still the big brother, remember that.”

“Dean, not only am I physically older than you, by nearly half a century, but I’ve also got a few inches on you.” Sam smirked. “I think _you’re_ the little brother now.”

“Um, absolutely not, Sasquatch. Cas, back me up,” Dean commanded.

“I will not,” Cas replied, to which Sam returned a hearty laugh.

Dean grumbled, “Unbelievable,” before launching forward and capturing Sam in a hug. His body stayed blessedly solid, and Sam wrapped his arms around him with tears in his eyes.

“It’s been so long,” he croaked.

Dean nodded against his shoulder.

“Are you even still… you?” Sam asked quietly. He was afraid of the answer he might receive.

Dean pulled back from the hug and roamed his eyes over the wrinkles in Sam’s face. “I don’t think either of us is quite the same, Sammy.”

Sam nodded solemnly, and Castiel watched carefully as Sam took a deep breath.

“Would you two like to come to dinner?”

 

Dean couldn’t stop talking while they walked. It was most talkative Castiel had ever heard him. He wanted to know _everything_ about Sam’s life, and Sam fielded every question with a patience that could only come from the experience of a good, long life.

They passed Lebanon’s school building on the way to the Winchester house, and Sam pointed at it with a fond smile. “That’s where I work,” when Dean asked what it was that he’d been doing all these years.

Dean gaped at it. “You’re a… teacher?”

“English,” Sam said, nodding. He was still smiling. “Grade seven.”

Dean nodded, affectionate. “You always were a big reader. God, what a nerd; you used to ask for books for your birthday.”

Sam chuckled and itched the back of his neck. “That hasn’t changed much. It’s the one indulgence Ames allows me anymore,” Sam said good-naturedly.

Dean rounded on him immediately. “Who’s Ames?”

Sam’s smile softened. “My wife. Amelia Richardson. She’s a veterinarian.”

Dean was positively glowing. All his hard angles, that tough and dark exterior just melted off of him to reveal this quietly proud and sweet family man. “Good for you, Sammy,” he said, choked up.

“I can’t wait for you to meet her,” Sam said excitedly. “I’ve always told her that you two would get along; she’s tough, Dean, you’ll love her.”

Dean shook his head slowly. “I’m sure I will.”

Castiel smiled as he watched the interaction between the brothers. Dean caught his eye and beamed, eyes crinkling at the corners. Cas smiled right back, and walked in silence by Dean’s side.

“So, wife,” Dean began, shoving his hands in his trouser pockets. “Any kids?”

Sam scoffed. “Three. John’s the oldest, and then the twins.” He looked over at Dean tenderly. “Deanna and her sister have always been kind of a handful,” Sam added.

Dean blanched at the admission – his little brother named his _kid_ after him – and found he couldn’t say very much at all. He was struck speechless.

Cas rested a hand between his shoulder blades discreetly and Dean nodded to show he was fine. “Hm,” was all he could manage without actually bursting into tears.

Sam’s smile twitched. “I really could have used your help with them,” he admitted. “You were always so much better at that sort of stuff than I was. It was like the first thing I really had to figure out on my own.”

“I’m sure they’re great, Sam,” Dean told him, and Castiel could tell he meant it.

“I have to agree,” Cas said. “Any children of yours must have come from a very loving place, and I’m sure they’re doing very well for themselves.”

Sam nodded at Castiel, appreciative of his words. “Well, come on then. Dinner’s going to be ready any second, and Amelia hates tardiness more than anything.”

The Winchester-Richardson farmhouse itself was modest and cozy, but it sat on a few great acres of green, woods and dirt trails and paddocks and shed space. There was a small barn off the back off the house where they kept a few cows – not too many, just a small operation that was more about teaching their children discipline and keeping Amelia in practice than making money – and one very surly mule named Bobby.

The dogs started barking as soon as Sam opened the front gate. Two big, fluffy, golden things careened into their master, wiggling their whole bodies and sniffing excitedly at Dean. His demonic condition didn’t seem to put them off at all, but they did keep a respectful distance from Castiel.

“Down, Riot! Down!” Sam groused, shoving the floppy animal away from him. “Come on,” Sam ushered, nodding to the house, “They’ll settle down eventually.”

Dean chuckled a little bit and looked around, taking in everything from the weather vane to the sunset peeking over the trees edging the property. It was picturesque here; Dean couldn’t have imagined anything better for his brother.

“Amelia!” Sam called once he opened the front door, throwing his boots down on the porch outside the front door. “We have company!”

Dean heard a faint crashing noise and then a loud, “I didn’t know we were expecting anybody!”

A tanned, curly-haired beauty of a woman rounded the corner, dusting her hands off on her yellow apron. She was smiling, face delicately wrinkled and spotted from the sun, and gaped at the people behind Sam. “Sam, that looks like –”

Sam was grinning. “I know. Amelia,” he introduced, grabbing Dean by the shoulder. “This is my brother, Dean.”

Amelia’s face broke out into relief – still hesitant, mind you; she had been told Dean died many, many years ago, but she had known for a long time that anything was possible in this family – and held out her hand. “Amelia Winchester. Nice to finally meet you, Dean.”

Dean reached for her hand. “Same to you, Amelia. This is Castiel, my…” Dean supplied, pointing to the reticent necromancer crowded against the door.

Castiel stepped forward and inclined his head. “I’m the one who summoned Dean. Your home is lovely,” he complimented.

“Summoned. Oh,” Amelia’s face was a carefully polite mask, but the shock was obvious. “Well, we’d better… sit down then.”

Dean nodded and glanced to Sam nervously, as if he were afraid he would object. But Sam only waved them forward, hurrying them into their living room with an over-the-shoulder remark about changing out of his dirty pants.

Dean soaked up every detail of the house. The pictures on the wall he hadn’t even known that Sam owned, the furniture all lovingly worn, little kid drawings still piled on an old desk, from grandkids maybe, a cat snoozing on top of a chest, the flowers painted on the nearest windowsill. He still couldn’t believe any of it was real.

Sam wore threadbare slippers and went to bed at 9:00. Amelia had a vegetable garden and didn’t take any of Sam's shit. It was perfect.

He was glad Sam moved on. He was glad he got the life he wanted and that Dean wasn’t able to hold him back from becoming such a successful, decent man (even if he insisted on keeping his ridiculous long hair).

When Sam reappeared, Amelia had somehow corralled Dean into the kitchen and stuck a spoon in his hand. Castiel reclined in an overstuffed armchair by one of Sam’s bookshelves and listened to the pair’s quiet bickering over soup broth and shared an amused smirk with the younger Winchester brother sitting across from him.

Sam crossed his legs, groaning a little bit as his joints popped, and smiled serenely across the room. "So, Castiel, what do you do exactly?" he asked with mirth in his eyes, and maybe just a hint of suspicion. The cat wandered by Sam’s chair and he dropped a hand to its head absentmindedly.

Castiel tilted his head. "Most of my time is spent peacefully communing with the dead and gaining insight. There are a great many things to learn through the veil."

"You just... sit there quietly?"

Castiel nodded. "For many days at a time. I'm afraid it's not very exciting, but the payoff is... considerable."

Sam grinned a little wider. "So can you see the future?" He had heard the tales then, of witches who harnessed spiritual energy to bend time, to shape their futures and discern others'.

Cas smiled amusedly. "I can glean small details here and there. Truthfully, I prefer not to know how the future is going to pan out. Things can always be changed."

Sam listened intently when Castiel spoke about pantheism, contributed his own articulate beliefs on the Threefold Law – he even taught it in his classroom as a tool to help the children understand that their actions have consequences, good or bad, and that they inevitably impact the world. As an educator, it was a very appealing concept, he explained.

“So, my brother, huh?” Sam started, picking at a loose thread in the upholstery.

Castiel nodded. “I am very glad to have raised him,” he said honestly. “He has been a great help to me.”

Sam frowned. “I don’t know how much he’s told you, but he’s not just some criminal, Cas. Dean was – and still is – a good man, and he didn’t deserve to go to Hell.”

Cas nodded empathetically. “I’m aware of that.” He hesitated for a moment before leaning forward slightly. Sam copied him. “He told me everything.”

Sam nodded, mouth tight. “I know I shouldn’t blame myself, but it’s hard.”

“You’re right; you shouldn’t.”

“Just… look out for him ok? The kind of suffering he’s had to endure… it takes its toll. And Dean’s always had the bigger heart; he needs somebody in his corner.”

Castiel decided that he liked Sam very much. He was soft-spoken but strong, he thought hard about what he wanted to say before he said something, and was always impeccably articulate. He was calm, steady, and a good listener. He loved to learn from others and his eyes lit up when he spoke of something he was passionate about. It was those moments when Castiel could see the family resemblance.

Yes, he liked Sam Winchester very much.

He was giving Sam a few tips on his protection sigils before Amelia called them over to the table for dinner. Castiel lit some candles along the sill and Amelia said grace.

Dean was not served a portion since he didn’t eat – he had tried a piece of chicken as he and Amelia were cooking and was not pleased to discover that it tasted only like ash and metal – but he was content to observe the others and contribute to conversation. He kept sneaking shy glances at Castiel, almost as if reassuring himself that he was having a good time, that he wasn’t irritated at being sidetracked by Dean’s pitifully small family.

(Of course that couldn't be further from the truth.)

“So,” Amelia said, taking another spoonful of rice, “Will you two be staying for the festival?”

Castiel looked up from his plate and narrowed his eyes. “What festival?” he asked.

Sam dropped his fork in his frenzy to answer, to which Amelia squawked a firm _Samuel, you_ will _clean that mess up!_ “The Blood Moon festival,” he said, ignoring his wife.

Dean nodded with some faint recognition. “Oh, right. For the eclipse,” he recalled.

“Ah, of course,” Castiel said, nodding to himself.

Dean smirked at him and kicked his shin lightly under the table. “Mr. Wizard over here knows everything about the stars.”

Castiel flushed a little under the praise, unable to ignore the pride in Dean’s voice. He remembered laying side by side with Dean that night pointing out the constellations on the journey here and rattling off facts about their star signs; it was a special night to him, a moment of tenderness he was learning to treasure with Dean.

Sam rested his giant hands on the table. “Have you ever been, Castiel?”

Cas shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not.”

Sam beamed. “We tell the kids at school that once a year, this giant jaguar eats the moon; that’s why the moon turns red.

“To keep the jaguar from falling to earth and eating people, we all gather in the square on the night of the eclipse to howl at the moon, to scare it off. There’s face painting, songs the kids sing to nurse the moon back to health, and everybody brings food to share.” Sam picked his fork up off the floor and wiped it on his napkin with a shrug. “It comes from some sort of indigenous tradition,” he added.

Amelia had her chin resting in her chin as she watched her husband explain. “We used to take the kids when they were little,” she told them. “If you want to, you should come with us this year,” she told the two of them, glancing from Castiel’s face to Dean’s and then back again.

Sam’s eyes go wide, childlike. “Oh, Dean you would _love_ it. Stalls of food stretch around the whole block. And I’m sure you could talk one of the locals into loaning you a guitar,” Sam rambled.

Castiel grinned at this. “You play?” he asked Dean, turning to him.

Dean hesitated. “I used to,” he said quietly.

Castiel frowned. Nothing about Dean had been hesitant since they’d arrived; but he was almost skittish at the table now and clearly uncomfortable.

These were god-fearing people. What would they think of a shade lurking around their children on the night of a Blood Moon? _You don’t belong here_ , the doubt was creeping in.

Castiel turned his attention from Dean back onto Amelia. “Thank you, but I’m afraid we have to be getting back home soon. Perhaps next year,” Cas said. Dean snapped his head up and stared at Castiel’s head. He couldn’t hear his thoughts, could he?

Amelia smiled. “Alright then. We’ll hold you to it.”

Castiel nodded and looked back at his dinner, ignoring Dean’s staring. It had not lessened in intensity.

This relationship between Dean and Sam was still new and fragile. Dean had already proved that his soul was both resilient and gentle at its core – Dean could afford to ease into this for now.

Sam deflated considerably but was beaming with content nonetheless. “Please, any time that you’re in the area, don’t hesitate to drop in.” He turned to look at Dean and smile at him. “It’s really good to have you back, Dean.”

Dean nodded and clapped Sam around the shoulder, smiling shakily. “It’s good to _be_ back.”

 

He really did want to go to the Blood Moon thing with Sam. They had been once as children, Dean remembered it well, the fireworks and the pure joy on Sam’s young face. He couldn’t have been more than 14.

To this day, it’s one of Dean’s happiest memories.

Sam’s life was like that: explosive, burning hot and beautiful. He wanted to share Sam’s world again. He was so grateful that Sam had even offered it up to him in the first place. He didn’t take kindly to the idea of Dean’s deal so long ago; he was worried his brother might still resent him for his choice, abandoning him in the world to fend for himself.

He’d been slowly relearning his humanity as he joked around with his brother and cooked with his sister in law. Dinner was a blessed, peaceful break from the life he’d known.

But he still flinched if someone moved too quickly near him. Amelia had asked for someone to pass the salt at dinner and without thinking, Dean reached for it only to sizzle spectacularly once he touched it and to have his eyes flash irritatingly black. 40 years of Hell was a lot to unlearn.

He wasn’t quite ready to get back out there.

When everyone had gone to bed, he sat in a wooden chair pulled over from the dining room in front of the front door, carving every demon’s name he knew into the doorframe with a tiny knife. PROHIBITED FROM ENTRY: ABADDON, ALASTAIR, AZAZEL, LILITH, RUBY… His coworkers, his _peers_. He could never forget what he was.

Dean didn't need to sleep, so he put all his effort into guarding this house. He wanted to protect this holy corner of security to the best of his ability; the people within were precious to him. Not just his brother and his lovely wife but Castiel too, asleep on the couch on the den only twenty feet from where Dean had stationed himself. He was the one who had given him this gift in the first place.

Dean crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on the sleeping necromancer. Just remembering seeing Cas change from his robes into sleep clothes and mumbling incantations to himself put a smile on his face.

When he had been resurrected he had thought it would be a trick or a curse to be reminded of all the small pleasures of life, only to be thrown back to the wolves below deck once he fell into believing it as reality. After tonight, he decided he didn’t even care if it was cruel.

Something had changed in him, something tender that had been allowed to blossom and swallow 40-year-old cynicism and resentment. And it was all thanks to Castiel.

He listened to the quiet nighttime sounds of Sam’s farm and just took a moment to breathe. Here he was safe. Here he was loved. He would need these memories later of good family dinners, of cute magicians with messy bed head when Alastair’s knife dug deep into his flesh. To keep him sane and grounded when his torturer tempted him with a blade of his own to wield. These moments would carry him through when Castiel eventually sent him back.

He closed his eyes and savored it all.

 

Everyone woke at an early hour the next morning. Sam and Amelia had to feed the cows and let out the dogs, and Dean of course had been up the whole night. Cas took the liberty of making a simple breakfast (under Dean’s guidance and supervision) as thanks for allowing them to stay with them so unexpectedly. “Nonsense. We loved having you,” Amelia told them earnestly.

While Dean and Sam were hugging it out on his front porch, misty eyed and too manly to say anything about it, Amelia dragged Castiel aside and handed him a tiny cloth bag. “Blueberry herbal tea – it reminded me of your eyes,” she told him, winking. Castiel smiled and gratefully took the small bag, exchanging a warm hug with her.

“Don’t forget to visit.”

“I won’t forget.”

Sam turned surely to Castiel. “Thank you for everything, Castiel.”

With one last goodbye and well wishes on their travels, Dean and Cas stepped outside the front gate of the Winchesters’ home. Sam and Amelia waved from their front porch until the two were completely out of sight, and the farm was just a speck in the distance.

Dean was quiet for a long time after they left. They had completely left the Kansas province before he even decided to say something. He finally broke the silence to say, “He looked really happy.”

Castiel smiled. “He looked even happier once he had you back.”

Dean tucked his chin to his chest, pleased. “I missed him a lot.”

“That clearly runs both ways.”

Dean huffed an incredulous half-laugh and ran a hand down his face. “Thank you for giving me that. Really.”

Castiel could feel Dean staring at him again, and this time decided to meet his stare head-on. “You’re welcome. I like them very much.”

Dean’s smile faltered for a short minute before he nodded. “Me too.”

Castiel knew what he was thinking about. He was wondering if that was the last goodbye he’d ever have with Sam.

Gathering his courage, Castiel took a deep breath. "I can work on pushing the limits of your restraints so that you'll be able to come here without my permission. You were right, you are not my ‘errand boy.’ It will take some time to cross this much distance, but I will try -"

Dean was so caught off guard by the offer that he interrupted Cas right in the middle of his proposal. "But what about... when I go back?"

Cas tensed. "I suppose we should talk about that."

They didn't say anything for a while, walking side by side even though Dean could have been far ahead of him if he wanted to be.

 _Time to lay it all on the line._ "I don't want to go back," Dean confessed quietly. "I never did."

"I know," Castiel said like it pained him. "I don't want to have to send you back. You don't belong there, Dean. Sam certainly thinks so, and so do I."

Dean didn't know about that, but he was able to breathe easier knowing that Cas believed in him. It was silent on the road aside from the words shared between them. "So don't do it," Dean whispered.

Castiel hesitated, and Dean seized the opportunity to chip away at him. "I can help out,” he promised. “I can help power your spirit magic. I can protect you. Whatever you need. I can even walk Meg if you want me to. Fuck, I don't know." The shade was not above pleading. He would do whatever he had to in order to stay.

And truthfully, a lifetime of serving Castiel… would not be terrible.

Of course Castiel wanted to keep Dean around. He was such a bright presence in his life despite only having known him for a few days. He was something beautiful in his brother’s home, something human and lovely. But the Coven leaders were very insistent on their rules, especially surrounding dangerous craft like necromancy. The balance of the universe must be kept: what’s dead stays dead. Lost realms were meant to stay closed. Some doorways were not meant to be opened. It was _selfish_ to keep Dean to himself, a sin. Was he truly any better than the other self-serving black magicians? If his magic got too carried away Castiel could become the next Crowley, exiled and stripped of all his power.

“I want to live,” Dean admitted, trembling, and Castiel’s mind was made up.

He didn’t get the chance to open his mouth before something descended on him, knocking him to the ground with a low snarl in his ear.

“Cas!”

Castiel twisted around onto his back and slipped his hand into his pocket, gripping a crystal he’d obtained at the market. White fire blasted from his hand and knocked away the blurry shape leaning over him. As he sat up, panting, Dean jumped over him and grabbed the being by the collar, hauling it up to its feet.

It was a dark skinned man, bald with long, yellowing nails and dark eyes. Most noticeable of all were the rows of spiny fangs in his gaping mouth, dripping with saliva, venom, and blood.

What would a vampire want with Castiel?

The vampire twisted out of Dean’s grip, slashing at the smoke that held him, and snarled again as it dashed around his other side. Something was wrong; this vampire was faster and stronger than the others Castiel had encountered. This was not some lone, thirst-crazed grunt from the woods.

Dean was fuming. The vampire made another dash for Castiel, reaching out his long fingers to snag his robe, but Dean stepped in before Castiel could do anything. He snapped the vampire’s arm with a quick crack and knocked his foot into his knee. The monster sank to the ground, and Dean went down with him.

Like the confrontation with Crowley, Dean began to slowly dissolve into that cloud of choking black smoke. His eyes were black and shiny, and a cruel smile seemed to almost split his face in half. He leaned towards the vampire and opened his mouth.

His jaw unhinged, and his teeth went all the way back. Pointier, sharper than they had been. He snarled again, like nails on a chalkboard or a fork against a glass plate, and clenched down tighter. He was terrifying.

He was also going to kill this monster.

“Dean,” Castiel gasped. “Stop.”

Dean froze five inches from the vampires face. He closed his mouth and the skin of his face knit back together; his teeth retracted and smoothed and his jaw clicked back into its proper place. He still held tightly to the vampire’s clothing, but it was not fighting him. In fact, it looked calm and only slightly annoyed, like a shade devouring him whole would only be a slight inconvenience if anything.

“What were you trying to do?” Castiel asked it. “Surely you noticed I had protection with me,” he added, gesturing to Dean.

The vampire shrugged blithely with hooded eyes. “I do what I must. I have lived long enough as it is, if my life need be the price I pay for stopping you from making a grave mistake.”

Castiel knew that cultured, smooth voice. “You’re the Alpha,” he said.

The Alpha Vampire nodded. “And you’re Castiel. You’ve become a promising undertaker; congratulations on that.”

Dean growled. “What ‘grave mistake?’” he snarled, voice deep and dangerous.

The Alpha turned his eyes back to Dean. “Aside from the obvious pun, I was referring to opening the door to Purgatory,” he told him. Castiel’s blood ran cold.

“I told Crowley I wouldn’t help him,” he argued.

The Alpha smiled. “You think he’ll let you walk away,” he said with some awe. “How naïve of you. You are weak, Castiel: I know you felt its pull.”

Guiltily, Castiel remembered staring at the vial of Eleanor Visyak’s blood the Crowley offered to him. He had almost taken it; he had been so close. It was part of the reason he’d allowed Dean to lead him away in the first place. The journey was meant to clear his head.

Dean snapped at the Alpha again, but he did not flinch. He only narrowed his eyes further at Castiel. “You think Purgatory is just a weed patch, but that is the furthest thing from the truth.”

“What do you mean?” Cas intoned.

Dean wouldn’t stop growling, and the Alpha sneered at him. “There are things living there that _want_ to be let out. The door is shut for a reason.” He flicked his eyes back up to Castiel. “Anyone who tries to unleash that must be stopped, no matter the cost. I _will_ protect my children.”

Castiel regarded him coolly. “Rest assured: I have no intention of letting anything out.”

Dean snapped the Alpha’s neck, and the vampire’s corpse collapsed into the dirt. Dean stood, still vibrating with tension and rage, and stared deep into Cas’s eyes.

“See? Bad news.”

 

Dean definitely earned his keep as they drew closer and closer to Castiel’s cabin. There were more monsters on the road than Castiel had ever seen: vampires and wolves and even wendigos that snatched at him from caves and shadows. Dean was ever vigilant, black eyes flicking to and from the trees with every step. The black irises helped him see better. He was poised for a battle at every moment. Castiel helped as best he could: painting defensive wards and cloaking symbols on his chest and arms, disabling enemies with a quick blast of energy. He still felt useless in the scheme of things.

It was only ever Castiel they were after. The creatures didn’t even spare a look in Dean’s direction. He was pensive about it the whole rest of the way home, drenched in ghoul blood from the last attack, and Dean turned those dead eyes on him, assessing.

"Don't do anything stupid like suggest you're going to go off on your own, alright? I'm already dead; it's not like they can hurt me,” he told him sharply.

Castiel sighed. “How do you know that’s what I was thinking?” he asked dryly. “I could have any number of things on my mind.”

“You look like you’ve been waiting to bolt for at least ten miles now,” Dean muttered. “Knock it off. This is what you summoned me for, right?”

Castiel sighed, but nodded. They’d be sticking together.

When the scenery started to look familiar, Castiel started noticing the blood spattered in the grass, chunks of limbs scattered on the roadside, red and yellow eyes darting between branches. There was a loud howl, and a boom, and then a simultaneous crack and whimper. Tree trunks were compacted, splintered and crushed. Branches and twigs littered the path.

Monsters weren’t just fighting Dean and Castiel. They were fighting each _other_.

Some, like the Alpha, wanted Castiel dead. He could only assume the ones they were fighting were the monsters that wanted Castiel alive – wanted the portal opened. He wasn’t sure which type he was more afraid of.

The minute they reached the cottage they knew Crowley was waiting for them. The mangled, bloodied corpse of a grey cat hung above the door. Blood dripped from her stiff paws down onto the threshold.

Castiel was _seething._ That traitor had killed Meg, an innocent.

Utterly murderous with rage, Castiel marched up the steps and wrenched open the door with clenched teeth. _Coward,_ he cursed mentally. Something howled in the distance.

Dean lingered behind him, nervous. He didn’t like the waves of evil rolling out the front door; it put him on edge just like the first time. He’d never seen Castiel so angry before, and it was unsettling that such divinity could be so disturbed. But Castiel needed him, so he swallowed his concern and followed him in.

 

It was quiet inside. The living room looked the relatively untouched. The only difference was that the corner of the rug had been thrown up, and the ward beneath scratched out of the floor. Castiel took a look around before walking into the kitchen.

There was nothing there either, aside from some blood in the sink. A black feather rested on the counter.

Castiel stomped back into the living area, Dean close at his back, and froze when he found Crowley seated on his couch. “Hello, darling,” Crowley cooed, hands folded demurely in his lap.

“I _told you_ , I wanted no part in this,” Castiel spat. “How dare you return here. Was my shade not clear of the consequences if you came back?”

It was inappropriate timing, but Dean couldn’t help the little flush of pride at Castiel’s words. _My shade. Mine._

Crowley smirked. “Be reasonable, pet. I’m trying to do you a favor. Besides, I’ve brought a little protection of my own this time.”

Crowley snapped his fingers, and a figure began to descend the stairs.

It was another dark skinned man of some sort in a tailored coat. Blue scales dotted his temples and the backs of his hands. The hair of Dean’s neck stood straight on end as he came closer, the very air crackling with electricity.

Crowley smiled slimily at the pair. “He has many names, but folks in these parts call him Raphael. Perhaps you’ve heard of him, Castiel.”

Castiel clenched his jaw. “Raiju. Of course.”

Raphael nodded to the necromancer, and Crowley spoke again. “He’s in his preferred form now, but he’d be happy to change if you’d prefer. I want to make this as painless as possible.”

Castiel sneered. “I’m not intimidated by your attack dog, Crowley.”

Raphael scoffed. “You should be,” he said.

Dean frowned. “Yeah? What makes you so special?”

Raphael flicked his eyes to Dean for the first time since he’d entered the room. “I am a _deity_. My true body is made of lightning. Whatever I want, I get.”

Dean snorted and Castiel placed a hand on his elbow to ground him. Best not to let him get too arrogant around the lightning idol. “You can’t hurt me, Crowley. You need me to complete the ritual.”

Crowley’s smile only grew. “Ah. But do I?”

Dean was immediately on guard, partially shielding Castiel with his body. “The ritual takes a lot of power, sure. But that can be found elsewhere,” Crowley revealed, sparing a secret look with Raphael, who smirked as they locked eyes. Crowley turned back to Castiel. “We do need you, Castiel, you weren’t wrong about that.”

Dean growled as Crowley finished his sentence. “The ritual calls for a sacrifice.”

Dean launched himself at Crowley and knocked him against the wall. Raphael stalked forward towards Castiel as the two struggled.

Castiel darted into the kitchen and quickly began to root around in his cabinets. Dragon-like creatures like Raphael were vulnerable to weapons forged with their own blood – he was positive that he had a dragon dagger stashed somewhere among the dried herbs and the candle wax.

A hand sunk into Castiel’s shoulder and spun him against the counter before a fist connected with his face. Castiel slammed his knee into Raphael’s abdomen, but it did little to deter the creature. His eyes were a glowing bright blue. It stung to be touched by him, the currents from his fingertips shocking every piece of skin he touched.

Behind Raphael, a pair of wings made of blue lightning split apart like tree branches.

Castiel shoved _hard_ against his shoulders and broke free, grabbing some crystals from a drawer by the sink. White fire sprung up between them, and Raphael paused long enough for Castiel to check the next cabinet. “Why are you doing this?” Castiel asked, panting slightly.

“Why?” Raphael scowled and kicked at Castiel, who blocked the leg with his arm. Raphael seemed to sag a little, his power dimming. “We’re tired,” he confessed wearily. “We just want it to be over. We just want… paradise.”

Castiel frowned and Raphael took the moment to attack again, swiping at Castiel’s torso. His nails caught Castiel’s shoulder, and the necromancer hissed as his clothing tore and blood began to bead along his flesh.

“These humans… they’re poachers. Do you see how creatures like us live? We don’t follow their rules, and we must lurk in shadow.” He launched another fist for Castiel’s face, and it caught him in the nose. “I used to be _worshipped,_ and now I flee to the mountains for respite.”

Castiel remembered the stalls in the Lebanon market. The vampire fang necklaces, the wing oil perfume, the selkie skin jacket. Monsters being brutalized and hunted for consumption. A power like Raphael locked away in exile. No wonder he was so attached to Crowley, who faced the very same isolation: they must have met in the mountains that Crowley fled to and Raphael was sympathetic to his cause, fueled by deep-seated resentment.

“What’s happened to you is terrible, but this is not the way to _fix things_ , Raphael,” Castiel insisted. “People are good, they would listen to your grievances.”

He thought fondly of Sam Winchester in his school building and the good he tried to teach.

Raphael kicked him again, and sent Castiel against the wall. His spice shelf cracked in half and fell down, sprinkling his hair with oregano and thyme and chili.

Raphael’s face twisted into a cruel smile. “With Purgatory open and monsters unleashed on this world, _their_ world, our way of life will finally be in the majority.”

He slammed his foot down onto Castiel’s chest, and he gasped out in pain. Blood was dripping into his eyes. He felt something crack in his chest. He squirmed under Raphael’s foot, sure that this was the end.

Raphael bent over and sliced his fingernail across the width of Castiel’s neck. Blood dripped into his hand and Castiel flailed, powerless.

Raphael kicked him in his side, definitely leaving a bruise, and stalked back into the living room, coated in Castiel’s blood while Castiel fought for consciousness.

In the other room, Dean was throwing everything he had at Crowley. The sorcerer was fighting back with dirty tricks and black magic, but Dean had more power coiled tight within him than Crowley could ever hope to harness. “There’s really no need for this,” Crowley panted.

Dean hit him again, and Crowley muttered a mirroring spell. Dean hunched over in pain, but hauled himself up and fought through it.

Raphael came through the door, dripping in blood. “We don’t have much time. The eclipse is due any moment,” Raphael announced.

Dean paused. “Eclipse?”

Crowley knocked into Dean, catching him off guard and sending him backwards into the couch. It tipped over, and Dean slid across the floor.

Crowley straightened his robe. “ _Yes_ , the bloody eclipse. Another ingredient for the spell,” he said cockily. He took out the same vial he had shown off at their first meeting and handed it over to Raphael. “Get to work,” Crowley muttered. “I’ll start reading the scroll.”

Raphael tore open the vial and began smearing Eleanor Visyak’s blood on the wall in a three-pronged symbol. Dean made a move to stand and stop him, and Crowley waved a finger. “Ah, ah, ah,” he sang.

Dean was pinned down to the floor by some invisible force, and he struggled against it furiously. “You son of a bitch!” he snarled, spitting in Crowley’s direction.

“This benefits you too, demon. You really want to spend your whole life serving some wet blanket?” he asked. “A new world order makes you free.” Dean only sneered and thrashed again.

 _Where was Castiel?_ Dean sincerely hoped he wasn’t dead – the very thought made something awful twist low in his chest.

Raphael cast the empty vial aside with a sharp crack. “Begin,” Raphael commanded.

Crowley produced a scroll from within his cloak and began to read.

“ _Ianua Magna Purgatorii_

_Clausa Est Ob Nos_

_Lumine Eius Ab Oculis_

_Nostris Retento_

_Sed Nunc Stamus Ad Limen Huius_

_Ianuae Magnae Et Demisse_

_Fideliter Perhonorifice_

_Paramus Aperire Eam_

_Creaturae Terrificae Quarum Ungulae_

_Et Dentes Nunquam Tetigerunt_

_Carnem Humanam Aperit Fauces_

_Eius Ad Mundum Nostrum Nunc_

_Ianua Magna_

_Aperta Tandem!_ ”

All of the windows in Castiel’s cottage blew out simultaneously. Dean gasped as his head cracked back against the floor and the wind picked up, howling through the blown open windows. From his position on the floor, Dean could see the moon through the window high in the sky, fiery red and gleaming. Slowly, it inched towards its usual coloring. The eclipse was ending soon.

Dean prayed hard for those little kids in Lebanon to keep howling.

Raphael was staring at the wall, and Crowley was grinning. Maniacal power gleamed in his eyes, which were now red and bloodshot. He gripped Raphael’s scaled forearm, and his eyes returned to normal.

The wall began to split along the cracks of the blood-drawn symbol.

Raphael, with no small amount of awe, stepped back from the wall, towards the kitchen. “It’s opening,” he whispered. “They’re coming.”

Crowley’s grin did not let up, and he stepped closer to the portal. “Well done,” he praised.

Raphael began to smile, but his face went abruptly slack. Dean heard a crunch and a wet squelch, and Raphael’s form dropped to the floor.

A bloodied Castiel was crouching on the kitchen floor behind him, bloody dagger in his right hand. “Dean! Go!” He held his bleeding throat in his free hand.

Crowley whipped around to see the wreckage of his hired muscle. As he turned, Castiel caught a glimpse of the wall. Through the portal, black tongues and gnashing teeth and claws surged for the opening, gripping the wood of Castiel’s house. “What have you done?” Castiel whispered, gripped by fear.

With Crowley’s focus drawn elsewhere, Dean was able to wrestle out of Crowley’s trap and stand. He stalked over to Crowley, who only realized what was happening a moment too late.

With a thunderous expression, Dean gripped Crowley’s throat in one fist. Crowley choked against his grip and clawed at his sleeve. Dean lifted his feet up off the floor to bring him at eye level -

He leaned in close to Crowley’s bloodshot face, smoke rolling off of him and smothering his opponent, eyes as black as they’d go. “You want Purgatory so bad? Go and take it.”

He shoved Crowley through the portal.

There was enough time for Dean to catch the stunned and terrified expression on the wizard before the moon passed out of its shadow. The portal began to knit shut, and Crowley cried out in panic before it closed completely and the monsters came down upon him. His scream echoed for a moment, and then it was silent.

Dean stood there for a moment, watching the bloody wall. Was it really over? It couldn’t have been that easy. He was still hyperaware, tensed for some movement, any excuse to kill.

A groan behind him forced him into action. “Cas,” he gasped, dashing away from the closed portal.

Castiel was on his back against the floor. With labored breathing, he tossed the dagger in his hand away and pulled Dean close by the front of his shirt. “First cabinet,” he mumbled. “Blue jar.”

His arm fell back to his chest and Dean dashed away into the kitchen, hurriedly throwing open the cabinet door and grabbing the blue jar on the shelf, along with some thick swatches of bandage. He returned to Castiel’s side and held the jar out for him while he got to work taping up the biggest gashes, including the one on his neck.

Castiel took the jar from Dean and downed its contents in a few quick gulps, before dropping it and letting it roll beside his upturned desk. “Are you alright?” Cas asked quietly.

Dean nodded. “I’m more worried about _you_ right now,” Dean said, worry forcing his tone to sharpen. He was angry with himself; he was meant to protect Castiel, and he almost died on his watch.

Castiel waved a hand. “I’ll be alright. I’m fine. Help me up,” he commanded.

Dean grabbed Cas by the wrists and pulled him to a sitting position. Castiel grunted, and Dean reeled him in against his chest, holding him tightly to him. “You’re really ok? You’re sure?”

Castiel nodded against Dean’s shoulder. His hands came up around to Dean’s shoulder blades, smoothing soothingly over his back. “I’ll need time to heal. But yes.” He clutched Dean tighter.

A tense moment passed. “You were spectacular,” Castiel murmured.

Dean laughed a little. “Yep, that’s me.” He looked over at Raphael’s corpse and frowned with disgust. “You weren’t so bad yourself.”

Castiel returned his quiet laugh with one of his own. “I’m not sending you back to Hell,” Castiel told him. “I can’t.”

Dean blew out a sigh and knocked his head lightly against Castiel’s. “Hey, come on, we can talk about that later.”

“No. I wanted to tell you before – I want you to stay with me. That is, if you want.”

Dean pulled back from their hug and inspected Castiel’s face. Aside from the blood and the bruising, there was _hesitance_ in those clear blue eyes, fear around his downturned mouth. As if Dean would refuse him.

Dean held his breath and leaned in closer to him. “I want to stay,” he whispered. “Cas, I want…”

Castiel captured Dean’s mouth with his own, and Dean sighed into the kiss. It was slow and sweet, it was perfect and lovely, it was –

With a gasp, Castiel pulled back. “Ah, my nose –”

“Shit, hang on, let me look.”

Dean cupped Castiel’s face in his hands gently, inspecting Castiel’s bloody nose with precise focus. “It’s probably broken. I can set it, but that’s going to… why are you laughing?”

Castiel tilted his head exaggeratedly and leaned forward again, pressing a chaste kiss to Dean’s cheek. “I’m lucky to have you looking out for me.”

With a grin, Dean kissed Castiel’s bloody brow. “Yeah. I know the feeling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok for serious this is the end. Phew. This universe spiraled so far out of my control that I don't even know what to say anymore. I thought I was done at 8,000 words and now I have over 17,000.  
> I'd like to thank everyone who left such kind comments and kudos on the first part and who asked me so vehemently to continue. I never would have come up with all of this if it hadn't been for your encouragement. I've fallen a little bit more in love this verse because of the love YOU have shown it.


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